


But For You I Came This Far Across the Tracks

by the_wordbutler



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, but - Freeform, they're maybe not together yet, you know what happens next
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bruce leaves the team, everyone takes bets on when he'll come back.</p>
<p>Tony doesn't win the bet. </p>
<p>But he might win the next one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But For You I Came This Far Across the Tracks

**Author's Note:**

> For youguysimserious on tumblr, who provided the prompt (and then waited until the next morning for her fic, because I had to sober up).

Two months, three weeks, six days, and eight hours.

That’s how long Bruce waits to … come home.

He calls it home before he steps into the foyer of Stark Tower, before he—breaches the threshold and is swallowed up by the polished marble and huge dark-wood fixtures. He stands there on the stairs, his bag over his shoulder and his clothes still rumpled from the plane flight back, and he … tries to piece the words together.

The last conversation before he left, Tony’d said, _You’re always welcome._

_Most people don’t welcome human time bombs, Tony._

_Since when have I been most people?_ Tony’d demanded. He’d opened his arms, dropping the television remote and the silverware he’d been carrying. Bruce’d laughed, a little, at the tinkle of silverware all over the floor in the lounge. Tony’d given him exactly the send-off he’d asked for: crappy Chinese food from a place around the block, two of the previous year’s best-selling movies ( _Black Swan_ and _The King’s Speech_ ), and several quiet hours on the couch.

Their knees and elbows and hands’d sometimes bumped as they shared sweet-and-sour sauce and lo mien, and Bruce’d … tried to focus on the movies, not feel like a teenager on his first date again.

Somewhere in the middle of _Black Swan_ , Tony’d tipped his body in Bruce’s direction. _Me casa is su casa, you know._

_Your accent’s horrible,_ Bruce’d retorted, and jabbed him in the ribs with his chopsticks. Tony’d snickered and wriggled away from jab two. _I’m watching this._

_I’m just saying,_ Tony’d insisted. He’d flopped back against the cushions, and Bruce’d watched his head tip back. He’d wondered, silently, how Tony felt about lips and teeth on that neck of his. _If you wanna come back, once you save the world, you can come back here. Just you, me, occasionally Pepper to boss us around—_

_Boss you around,_ Bruce’d corrected.

_—and whatever you want._ Tony’d rolled his head to look right at Bruce. _Not just out of me. Out of—life. Anything you want, here, at Stark Tower._

Bruce’d dipped his head, stared at the carton of fried rice in front of him. _I’m still going,_ he’d said, quietly.

_Well, when you come back. It’ll be here. Waiting._ Tony’d shrugged. _Like a kid coming back from college at Christmas break, or whatever. I won’t even give your room to the cute younger sibling who I secretly like better, no matter how hard Natasha bats her eyes._

Bruce’d laughed a little, smiled quietly at Tony, but he—hadn’t said anything else. In the morning, he’d boarded a plane for Calcutta.

And two months, three weeks, and five days later, he’d boarded a plane to come back.

He stands on the steps for longer than he needs to, staring up at the glass doors that lead into the tower, and then up at the tower itself—imposing, too tall to really take in, and too gleaming in the morning light—but not moving. At least, not until someone behind him says, “Y’know, Clint had the over-under at a week and a half, and Steve figured you’d crack, like, six months from now. I think that means Natasha wins the pot.”

Bruce starts, a little, and twists on his heel to see the one person he didn’t expect to see, not—out here. Tony’s wearing a suit with sneakers and sunglasses and grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Pepper presses past them, murmurs a hello to Bruce that he almost misses—because he’s too busy staring at Tony.

The car he arrived in zips away. “You were—taking bets?” he asks, wetting his lips.

Tony shrugs. “Everybody needs a hobby, right? Tried painting pottery, but turns out, JARVIS’s a lot better at it than I am.” He climbs the steps between them slowly, one after another, and ends up on the one directly below Bruce. “Plus, last time I made Butterfingers a baby sister-robot to play with, he picked it apart within, like, twenty-four hours. Which is proof maybe I need to not baby them so much.”

“They—bet on me,” Bruce says again.

“We all did.”

“What was your bet?”

He thinks it’s maybe the wrong question, for a second, because Tony’s face—stills. It loses its manic energy, its warmth, and it just … sits. He purses his lips together and then raises his chin. Even with the sunglasses, Bruce can feel his eyes.

“That you’d never leave. That I’d ask you to stay, the night before, and you’d stay, and that’d be that.” He lifts his shoulders and shrugs, a little. “But hey, far as I’m concerned, coming back is coming back. Besides, if I win the pot, I take money away from the little people and—”

“Make the bet again,” Bruce interrupts.

Tony stops, the next word formed on his lips but not yet sounding. Bruce, he—wants to do more than just say things, he wants to act, somehow, but he—isn’t sure how. He’s not sure about any of this: how he got back here, what happens next, whether he can—be in New York, in humanity, without the whole world crashing down around them.

He curls his fingers around the strap of his bag.

“Tell them you want to take bets on how long I stay, this time,” he explains, and Tony’s mouth closes. “And then, make the same bet.”

Tony’s quiet for a few very long seconds. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stand there, on the steps, looking at each other, Bruce in his rumpled clothes and Tony polished and clean. At least, until Tony takes off his sunglasses, and Bruce is greeted with this—look.

This warm, wonderful, beaming look.

“C’mon, Big Guy,” he says. He closes the distance between them, slings an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, and starts tugging him up the stairs. “There’s at least five more Oscar-nominated movies for you to see, and about a hundred Chinese places you haven’t tried.”

Bruce laughs. “All in one night?”

“All in one afternoon! Tonight’s for ice cream sundaes and board games.” Tony stops them, for a minute, on the steps. His arm’s warm, his hand’s broad, and Bruce— Bruce swallows when he thinks about how much of Tony he can feel right now, and how much of that he’s missed.

“Welcome home,” Tony says, simply.

Bruce smiles. “Thanks,” he replies, and lets Tony drag him inside.


End file.
